“Right you are, sir!” was all he said, “I’m off; many thanks all the same”—and slipping the two franc piece in his pocket, he walked away, pursued by the foreman’s scrutinizing and suspicious gaze.
Scarcely had he disappeared before the engineer—it was evidently he who had ordered his dismissal—again appeared from among the shadows. He advanced to the shore of the lake, nodding familiarly to the men working there, and on reaching the water’s edge, gave a shrill, short, sharp whistle, then stood quite still, waiting. The night was dark, without moon or stars. In a few seconds after he had blown his whistle, there showed up on the dark waters of the lake a shadowy, fantastic shape. It was indistinctly seen at first, but it approached so rapidly that very soon it became easy to make out what it was—a boat of rubber, a collapsible boat such as explorers use. A man was on board, rowing silently and soundlessly. Soon the figure grew plainer and its outline could be vaguely discerned, the boat was entering the zone illuminated by the acetylene flares.
Then the mysterious rower rose to his feet. What would Fandor’s feelings have been, had he been there to see? The man who stood in this mysterious craft, who was approaching this scene of impromptu road-making, issuing from the impenetrable shadows of the lake, was clad from head to foot in a suit of black-close-fitting tights. His shoulders were draped in a dark cloak, the face was invisible behind a cowl, a black mask!
A figure of horror, a very incarnation of crime, a form of terror without a name! It was the form of Fantômas, come in the night to inspect the work of the roadmen engaged in preparations for to-morrow’s fête!
The hour was divine, the scene fascinating in its charm and seduction, at once sumptuous and refined. Nor was the setting less delightful, this elegant restaurant, this favourite haunt of fashion, where the invited guests one and all belonged to the wealthy aristocracy of Paris; supper was drawing to an end, the talk grew more brilliant than ever, the music was ravishing, the women lovely, the perfumes intoxicating, the flowers a feast for the eyes! No less than everything else the mysterious hues of the foliage, a weird tint of blue painted by the gleam of the electric lights, contributed to lend this corner of the Bois a look of unreality, a fairylike aspect like some fantastic scene on the stage, charming, delicious, entrancing!
This evening the place was even more brilliantly lighted than usual. The papers had made much of the coming festivity; in celebration of a treaty of Commerce signed the previous week, the English Ambassador was paying this compliment to his colleague the Ambassador of Russia. Dinner was served at separate little tables. It was past midnight, the meal was almost over and conversation was more animated than ever.
Apart from the other guests, at a table set at a distance from the others, sat dining quite alone a very beautiful woman, of an irreproachable elegance and one who, better still than Sonia Danidoff, could claim the rank of Royal Highness. The waiters named her to each other with baited breath: “Her Highness the Grand Duchess Alexandra.” It was in fact the haughty great lady, friend of Frederick Christian IV, King of Hesse-Weimar, the proud lady whom Juve and Fandor, and they alone, knew to be in reality the enigmatic Lady Beltham, the mistress of Fantômas!
And truly, if some observer had chosen to watch the pretty woman in question, he would have shuddered to note with what a look, at once tragic and distraught, full of hate and violent animosity, she gazed at her gay and laughing neighbours, the guests of the Ambassadors of England and of Russia. It would seem indeed that the grand duchess had some secret motive for wishing to remain unseen by these members of Parisian society. Not content with choosing a remote table enveloped in deep shadow, she had likewise extinguished the little electric table lamp in front of her; the light thrown by the surrounding lamps was sufficient for her to see by. All through her meal the grand duchess sat pale and mute, barely answering the maître d’hôtel who hovered near, eager to supply her wants, her eyes fixed on the other diners, from whose tables came burst after burst of merry laughter.
Already the grand duchess was thinking of taking her departure when of a sudden, as if drawn by some surprising vision, she half sprang up, then with a quick recoil threw herself back into the shadows, as though terrified and yet more anxious than before to shun observation. Bowing low in courteous greeting to one and another acquaintance, a man of slim, well-knit figure and elegant bearing had joined the circle formed by the official guests. His name passed from lip to lip, and he was welcomed with a chorus of friendly and admiring exclamations, sometimes marked by just a touch of raillery:
“Tom Bob! why how late you are. What, have you been hunting till this hour of the night for your strange enemy, the ever evasive Fantômas?”